A Momentary Lapse of Reason
by St-Jimmy1669
Summary: What happens when gay chicken turns serious? It never turns out quite as we'd like. House Wilson slash
1. Chapter 1

House glared at Wilson over the expanse of blue melamine between them. Wilson stared resolutely back, determined not to be put off by House's cheap tactics. He fought the urge to brush the stray crumbs from House's sandwich off the tabletop. But no – he'd never hear the end of it if House was lead to believe that he was in any way superior. His eyes were watering, but that didn't matter now. There was a lot riding on this; he couldn't afford to let his concentration slip for an instant. He was dimly aware of some shape moving on the periphery of his vision, but whoever they were, they could wait…

No. The woman bustled into view, clearing the table behind House, and momentarily distracted, Wilson glanced away. House slammed his hand down triumphantly on the table.

"Ha! Jimmy Wilson, you owe me five dollars." He thrust his hand unashamedly across the table at Wilson. "Come on: pay up." Wilson obliged. It would be easier to dispute the finer points of the game once House was at least vaguely plastered.

The woman switched on her vacuum cleaner, glowering at them, and Wilson realised that they were the only two left in the cafeteria. Nodding pointedly at House, he donned his overcoat, and tossed over the trilby that House had found festering at the back of the wardrobe a week ago (but which Wilson would have sworn he'd seen him wearing recently) and had refused to part with ever since. As they passed the cleaner, he removed it for the purpose of an extravagant bow.

"I tip my hat to you, good lady"

The effect was dulled slightly by his lopsided posture as he leant heavily on his cane. Wilson dragged him off before he could earn them any more filthy looks.

Wilson had assumed that House would be making his own way home, despite the fact that they'd travelled together that morning, but those hopes were crushed as House followed him down to the car park and established himself in the passenger seat as soon as the car doors were unlocked. Sighing, Wilson climbed in beside him.

"Where to tonight then, boss?" House asked, looking at him in the rear-view mirror with those infuriatingly plausible eyes.

"Well… I heard Purgatory was a good vacation spot. Plenty of sun…"

"But tragically lacking in sea and sand. Well, then. Home, Wilson dearest?"

"Fine." Wilson pursed his lips and pulled away.

"Come on, Jimmy, you don't hate me really…" Wilson refused to react. How many times did those 'How to Handle Your Kids' shows state calmly and matter-of-factly that letting a toddler see that their behaviour is provoking a reaction only encourages them? True to form, after several minutes of fidgeting and sideways glances to see if he was eliciting a response, House settled, appearing suitably subdued. The reprieve was, of course, temporary – it always was, and so it came as no surprise when he spoke again, in the sort of impish tone that most people have outgrown by the age of twelve.



"Can you pretty please call your mummy and daddy and ask them if you can come over and play?"

"I've got a tonne of files to look through tonight."

"Stuff files. What can be more exciting than the unnegotiated terrain of my flat?"

"I really-"

"-The files are an excuse. And it's not as if you're going back to a fulfilling home environment…"

"OK, fine. What will it be? Chinese and a movie?"

"Chinese is boring. We always have Chinese. What about Italian? And alcohol? And pay-per-view porn?"

"Sounds like a good call. Though, watching porn with you, I'd fear for my sanity."

"Mi casa es su casa. Whatever floats your boat." House turned back to watch the road from out of the side window, snaffling a couple of fruit pastels from the bag he knew Wilson had stashed in the glove box. His flat was a mile or so closer than Wilson's, who almost had to be reminded to take the earlier turning.

When they got into the flat, House's first action was to collapse on the sofa, simultaneously reaching for the strategically-placed whiskey bottle in one smooth motion that seemed to Wilson to be of almost outstanding elegance, but which he suspected was a move perfected by years of the same comfortable routine. Clattering into the kitchen next door and depositing his bag on the table, he called through.

"I'll sort out the food, shall I?" House's reply was indistinct, so he reached for the drawer in which the takeaway leaflets were kept. "Hey, where's the Chinese menu?"

"God knows. The pizza one's still there, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. Order it yourself: the phone's closer to you."

Sighing, House reached over his head for the phone.

"You're having Mexican." It wasn't a question: in matters of pizza, Wilson had learned to bow to House's evidently-superior judgement. Besides, there was nothing wrong with Mexican. At least it would be an improvement on anything that came from the interior of House's kitchen.


	2. Chapter 2

Drink had flowed, and the black and white Westerns had been playing well into the evening, but even they had to finish some time.

Wilson was almost asleep. House gazed at him. Quietly, he murmured 'Three….two…one…' As if on cue, Wilson's arm relaxed and the (by now curling) pizza dropped to the floor, knocking the first domino… House stood in the middle and watched the dominoes fall around him. Wilson jerked awake as the last domino depressed the 'play' button on the relic of a cassette player and the first bars of some AC/DC-related shrieking broke over the room.

"What the hell, House?" he moaned, grimacing in the bright light.

"I was lonely"

"Well, one cure for that would be sleeping. You know, like normal people do?" House refused to take the hint, and continued the list of potential cures.

"Another would be death – I think we can rule that one out. Or…Holy Bodily Union? Or…actually," he conceded, "I can't think of any more."

"Great. But I'd be more concerned for my virtue if I knew you were that way inclined." Abandoning all hope of a reasonably quiet night, Wilson propped himself up on the arm of the sofa. If House was going to make a pass at him, as he did on occasion, it was better that they were in possession of all of their faculties. And, whether he was or not, there was little chance of getting any rest for the foreseeable future, so he may as well make himself comfortable.

"Ah." Oh, God. House was still talking. "But that is the big question. D'you really know anything about me? Would I or wouldn't I?" The sing-song voice faded, becoming deeper, and serious, as House's face swum in front of Wilson's eyes. Was he still joking now?

"Would you or wouldn't you….?"

It was afternoon in the cafeteria again. With nothing in particular to do, House had proposed a game, similar in many respects to a staring contest, and Wilson had consented for the hell of it. It had started off blandly enough, but the competitive streak had come to the fore, and the last time, they started off holding each other in vice-like gazes. In a bid to get one over on the other, they had drawn closer and closer, the proximity not difficult to engineer around the tiny tables. They had come to within inches of each other…

Wilson had been first to pull away.

House was now close enough to whisper in Wilson's ear, his soft breath ruffling Wilson's impeccably-trimmed hair. His stupid stubble infuriatingly brushing against his neck – not enough for him to actually get annoyed with…but enough…

"Don't forget, Jimmy, that I am the reigning champion of Gay Chicken…" He was tantalising him now.

Later, Wilson would curse with a worrying mixture of feelings whatever possessed him (no, it was the drunken valour raising its ugly head again) to sit up abruptly and reply.



"Like hell you are. We both know I would win under… controlled conditions"

"Yeah, yeah" House waved it off. "That's fighting talk for a man with a pathological fear of penises – especially his own." Wilson tried to pretend he wasn't weaving. God, that was two or three whiskeys too many…

"That… you'll regret that. You'll soon remember your own inadequacies."

"Oh, I'm scared. Is that a threat or a promise? Because I'm willing to bet you're considerably less well-endowed than me." House shrugged. He loved taking advantage of Wilson, who repeatedly refused to acknowledge that he couldn't hold his drink. But a bet was a bet. "Have it your way. And you can decide the conditions."

It was the fourth round. The first three times, Wilson had backed off well before House had come within licking distance (not a bad move, knowing House). He was just considering calling the thing off: it was ridiculous anyway, and not worth the competition it was generating. And yet… he considered it a service to others if he could beat House at his own game – the man would be downcast for days. With this in mind, he turned back to face House.

Second after mind-numbing second trickled by as their faces meandered closer - Wilson couldn't give in now, even if he tried… if it occurred to him to try. But they were practically nose to nose. If House didn't back off soon…. As they made fleeting eye contact, Wilson realised that House had no intention of pulling away. He had no time to think; no time to brace himself.

It was a second before Wilson realised that their lips had met, such was the subtlety of House's touch. He was too shocked to pull away, and so, he guessed, was House. Or maybe he was just revelling in his conquest… bravado spurred Wilson on, and he made a move. House was motionless, rigid against his mouth for a second, but he gradually, carefully began to respond.

It happened in a blur. Wilson didn't know where he was, all of a sudden. But much less did he care, as he fumbled with the buttons on his once immaculately-pressed shirt. No time to worry about that now, though – House was getting more insistent with that bitch of a belt buckle, and needed help – Wilson had no intention of letting him hit anything with frustration.

Remarkably, House was aware that he was wearing considerably fewer garments than he seemed to remember five minutes previously. But then, it was a warm evening. Or it certainly felt it. Wilson must be hot, too… God, this damn buckle!

"Wilson, I can't get…" Wilson didn't need to be asked twice to assist. The rush of cold air from the climate control stung his abruptly-exposed flesh, but House numbed it quickly.

All he could think as House's mouth met with his again, was that the man seriously could do with a shave.

Though not an altogether novel experience for House, the feel of the narrow hips and the rough cheek were an interesting departure from normality. Men were so less prone to mood swings, and didn't take offence at everything you said. He relaxed. The spirit was making its heady presence known now, dimming his thoughts and ensuring his concentration on the task – 

the tasks – in hand. Wilson's shudders were more than enough to egg him on, though he was quieter than the girls were. Another improvement, he noted.

He didn't think he'd found this sort of thing so interesting since the First Time. And even that hadn't been too big a deal. This, on the other hand…

Wilson was too overwhelmed by the exotic sensations assailing him that he forgot to think about the source's lack of an appropriate reproductive system. He could smell the whiskey on House's breath… or maybe it was his own… they were too close to tell, now. Not that it mattered, not that it mattered…

Oh, God… what was he doing? Without any indication of abating, House allowed an alien burst of conscience to wash over him, mingling with a potent spray of feeling until he was fit to burst. He struggled to take in the fact that his only friend was lying prone in front of him… and suddenly, he was all too aware of the fact. Sure, he was enjoying himself – for the first time in longer than he cared to remember – but….

It was House who pulled away first. Wilson, surprised, looked up, expecting to meet anger, but he seemed more nonplussed than annoyed. Wilson realised his hand was still on House's bare shoulder, and drew it away as though it scalded him. House watched it dumbly, and glanced at Wilson, not quite meeting his eye. He opened his mouth, but closed it soundlessly, deep in thought.

Finally, he spoke, and Wilson released the breath he realised he'd been holding all this time. But it was in a tone of – or so it seemed – forced joviality

"I didn't think you'd get that far."

"Yeah, well." He straightened, watching House pull his t-shirt back over his tousled hair, "And besides, I think you owe me something…" House snorted derisively.

"The hell I do. That was a draw. Didn't see me pulling out, did you?"

"Well…"

"Just now doesn't count. Because you'd have hated for this to get serious."

"What?" Wilson was amazed, "Serious? Since when can anything involving you even verge on serious?" He cast around in vain for his trousers. "What the hell did you do with my trousers?"

"Exactly." House leaned forward conspiratorially, dropping his voice to a whisper, and Wilson was reminded – not altogether uncomfortably – of the way they had been several minutes earlier. He dared not breathe; dared not move. "You see?" his voice rose to normal volume abruptly, and he leaned away, "I told you I was better-endowed."

Satisfied, he passed the trousers from where they'd been abandoned under the coffee table, and pulled up his own boxers, before making his way unsteadily to the kitchen for another slice of congealed pizza.

Wilson was still spread-eagled on the floor, twisting awkwardly to try to reach back under the sofa, when House returned, sans pizza, but with yet another tumbler. He watched the proceedings with amusement for some minutes before knocking the missing boxers off of the arm of the chair so that they came to rest an inch from Wilson's contorted frame. Grabbing them, Wilson staggered to his feet and attempted to dress himself as quickly as possible. House righted his own attire, leaving the belt undone… for posterity, was as good a reason as any. For a few clumsy moments, they stood, facing each other, before House's precariously-balanced tumbler fell to the floor with a dull thud and rolled, coming to rest next to a stray sock. House attempted to stifle a smirk, and, before they knew it, they were both laughing uproariously, hastily wiping tears of mirth from their eyes.

Wilson bent down to retrieve both the sock and the tumbler, taking a second to inhale deeply. It would be alright. With House, it always would. At least he was never one to take this sort of thing seriously. As long as he didn't see fit to embarrass Wilson (really, did the man know no shame?) they would be OK.

And Wilson was damned if he was letting this happen again. Honestly.

He wasn't sure, though, who this assertion was meant to impress.


	3. Chapter 3

Monday was exactly as Mondays always are: dismal. House could evidently see no reason for anything to be any different. And, though logic dictated that there was absolutely no reason why things should change, Wilson was left feeling slightly… deserted. If that was the right word. Because, if he was honest, he had expected – even hoped – that House would mention that evening again, even if only to point out his (alleged) inadequacies. Even one jocular allusion would have been better than nothing.

Still, these were unnecessary thoughts, best saved for the moments before the antidepressants kicked in. He'd get the dosage upped this week. And after that, he wouldn't need to think about it – about anything. As long as he could still do his job, and exhibit the seven characteristics of life…

Come to think about it, what were the seven characteristics of life? He knew they'd been drummed into him in some stupid eighth-grade biology class. How many he still knew, or cared about, was a different question. Let's see…

Movement. Yep. Well. More than Hou – no. Let's not go there.

Respiration: OK. But sometimes, God, he wished he didn't.

Sensory perceptions: Dulled by the meds, but he could take an average.

Nutrition: Well, yeah.

Excretion: Again…

Reproduction: the manner in which his previous relationships had ended hadn't given him much of a chance, but, as far as he knew, everything was in perfect working order.

Finally, growth. Albeit in all of the wrong directions, but at least he had a regular protein intake.

There it was: all seven functions ticked off. Now he could relax. At least he was alive in the technical sense.

House, by contrast, hadn't felt mellower since – well, he couldn't remember. And he was pretty sure that that wasn't down to the Vicodin. So he'd elected to spend a few days coasting on this peculiar high. Provided he didn't bump into Wilson, he could spend some time in control. Sure, he'd have a week at most, but it was better than nothing. He was determined to enjoy himself in these precious days of being able to walk without what seemed like the accumulated debris of centuries hanging over him.

So, at least for the moment, he was content to remember. Not that he was particularly that way inclined, of course, but… well, alcohol is a powerful tool, and one that he was willing to embrace. There would, naturally, come a point when Wilson, emotionally-charged as he was, would want an actual conversation, though what good that might have done, House could not fathom. He would deal with that when it came to it.


	4. Chapter 4

Wilson's physician had been reluctant to increase his dosage, and so he was fast running out of pills – as well as which, it had been well over a week, with no indication at all from House that they even knew each other. Their offices were next door, but no matter how many times Wilson strode out onto the balcony or pointedly slowed down outside the glass doors, pretending not to look in, he could barely even catch sight of the man, let alone catch his eye. He knew he was being stupid; he knew it. The way he was carrying on, House would think he was getting weird about the whole incident, and quite possibly make it obvious that he was avoiding him. Not that he was getting weird about it… he just… he didn't know how he was reacting. Maybe he wanted it to happen again, maybe he didn't, and – God, that was why he needed to talk to House. He may well get a high from watching Wilson squirm, but he didn't exactly share that sentiment. No, it was either confrontation or blissing out on his meds, and he was running low on those until his repeat prescription on Friday.

It was ten o'clock in the morning, and Wilson knew that House was deep in a case, but he didn't care. He'd made up his mind. Taking a deep breath, he burst into House's office. They were obviously in the middle of a differential, but no matter. He leaned defiantly in the doorway, and met House's puzzled glance. House looked away quickly, though his team stared at him with expressions ranging from concern to surprise to bewilderment.

'"House, we need to talk." House's head snapped up, and they met each other's gaze resolutely. House dared Wilson to come closer, and nodded briefly at his continuing silence, then turned back to the room.

"Of course. Sorry, people. If coma girl does anything unexpected, like dying, leave me a message." He strode levelly across the room: with a strange ushering motion, he herded Wilson into the corridor and followed him out.

The blank corridor echoed with the indistinct hubbub of the people around them. Wilson used it to mask the tremor he could feel creeping into his voice.

"House, it's been ten days. We haven't exchanged a single word."

"Yeah."

"What do you mean, 'yeah'?"

"I mean 'I validate your claim in the affirmative.' What else?" They had stopped. Wilson glanced behind him at the cupboard, then nudged open the door with his heel and pulled House through. House crumpled violently onto the stack of manila wallets inside the door, bemused by this outbreak of assertiveness from Wilson, who was now standing guardedly in front of the door, hands shoved deep in his trouser pockets. The bare light bulb glared harshly, but Wilson's head, contrary to his stance, was down: he seemed to be studying the floor intently.

However, he spoke first; hoarsely, as if he was struggling even to control his voice, let alone work out what he was going to-

"House, you haven't said anything to anybody."

"No."

"Why?"

"Why not? What difference does it make? You want them all to know?"

"What's the difference this time? You're always going on about your hordes of prostitutes and internet porn cache, so why not this time?"

"I'm sorry; do you not think I have the capacity to exercise some discretion?"

"Not making it a public joke is fine – it's brilliant. But, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were avoiding me." House reached over and tugged the light switch. They were thrust into darkness. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the dark, but at least it had shut Wilson up.

"What would I gain from avoiding you? It'd be an awful lot of effort for no personal gain, which is pointless."

"For God's sake, are you incapable of thinking about anything in emotional terms?"

"Maybe I'm not interested in talking about it. To hell with what you want for a minute – you want to talk? Go pray. I'm not getting into this, OK? As far as I'm concerned, we were both drunk – out of our skulls, more like – and did something that I've yet to decide as to whether it was exceedingly brilliant or absolutely stupid…"

"This isn't about whether or not we should carry on. God, House. The fact that we had sex is not the point." Though of course it was the point. It just wasn't a point he was ready to talk about.

The next time House spoke, he was quieter.

"Then what is the point?"

Wilson slid down the door, and ran his fingers through his hair. He was glad it was dark.

"The point is... the point is, do you have nothing to say about it? Didn't that evening make you feel anything at all? Because it's kind of difficult to function not knowing whether the jerk who has the spare keys to your flat hates your guts or is going to jump you again."

"Then what do you want me to say?"

"House…" He let his head fall softly against the rough wooden door. He could hear House breathing deeply, steadily.

"OK, Wilson. I'm not fulfilling your narcissism. If you're talking about the act itself, then you were alright. No premature ejaculation, no irritating pillow talk. Better than most, but I expect that some guys would outrank you."

"You know perfectly well that's not what I meant. You know I was talking…" He winced at the cliché, "emotional fulfilment."



"And you know perfectly well that there's only one kind of fulfilment I'm qualified to comment on."

"Don't even go there."

"Fine." House sighed. "I really need a pee, so pretty please may I be excused?" Wilson nodded grimly to himself.

"Go." He stood, and let House past, taking his place on the stack of manila wallets. House looked back in surprise.

"You coming?" Wilson shook his head. "OK." He hesitated again, "Erm… food for thought. You know this was the cupboard where I caught Chase and Cameron at it?"

"Great. Bye."

If nothing else, their confrontation seemed to Wilson to have cleared the atmosphere between him and House. House was back to vaulting the wall between the balconies at inappropriate moments, stealing Wilson's food and insulting him whenever the opportunity arose. But they still wouldn't look at each other, and House made a point of addressing him through whoever else was in the room at the time. For now, though, Wilson could take it. At least it resembled normality. He tried to forget about everything, and ignored the prickling sensation he got at the back of his neck, when he glanced around quickly and caught House looking at him with an expression he couldn't quite place. He'd often been admonished for trying to read too deeply into things. So now, when anything came to the front of his mind, he simply wandered off to the men's room and popped a couple of pills.

"House?" His eyes flicked up distractedly from the computer screen.

"What? Got a timed Su-doku going on here –" He stopped short at Cuddy's expression. "What's happened?"

"What? Oh, no, nothing." She shook her head briefly, as if to clear it, and House saw a shadow flit across her face, like cirrus smeared across the sky. "I just…nothing."

"Great. Enlightening conversation. Why are you here, again?"

"Oh, yeah… clinic." He sighed and leaned back in his chair.

"Christ, can't you think of anything more original?" But he still regarded her, his eyes smudged with something unreadable. No doubt, he was filing away everything she did for later analysis. This certainly wasn't a new trait of his, but still, every time he did it, she felt like she was being publicly undressed. It made her feel uncomfortable.

"Yeah, anyway, clinic. Ten minutes." And she left, breathing a sigh of relief. House could be unnerving sometimes.


	5. Chapter 5

Another day, another (allegedly) entirely unique case. Sometimes, the tedium of the departmental goings-on was a close rival for the utterly pointless dealings with the clinic. Still, switching between the two kept House occupied for the time being; not that he was planning on admitting to Cuddy that, right now, he'd prefer to be here, working mindlessly through a fascinating assortment of excess bodily fluids and negating the apparent terror of the patients with as few words as was physically possible. Because, however bad things got down here, it beat waiting on tenterhooks in the office for Wilson's next foray into normalcy, which had to be humoured in order to escape the dreaded Conversation. It wouldn't have been so bad, of course, if he could actually be doing something (it would have been better if he hadn't cared, actually, but that was something which refused to manifest itself in this particular circumstance), but the team were more than happy to sit around holding the patients' hands, waiting for endless test results and concocting their own mini-sagas to boot. Which was great as far as their training was concerned, but left him a little out of the loop. Just the higher power to refer to with ideas and to provide answers… with a lot of time to spare in which to pretend to be pretending to ignore Wilson, so that he didn't think the whole situation was as bad as it was.

"Do you need to stay in the exam room for lunch?" It was Cuddy. House wanted to kick himself for not paying attention; he had no acerbic comment immediately to hand.

"What do you mean? I spend half my life in this room - against my will, I might add - and you want me out now?"

"It's just that it's kind of busy out…" Damn. She was being apologetic. That meant she wanted something.

"What is it you want? Bearing in mind that the frisky doesn't come out to play until after hours…" She sighed, and leaned back against the work surface.

"Fine. Is there something going on between you and Wilson?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know… but you've been acting kind of weird around him, and his physician told me he's been asking for his meds to be upped for a couple of weeks."

"And… you figure that it's my fault he's miserable. You do know he tells about five people a week that they're dying? The man's a misery-magnet…"

"No, I figure it's not something work-related because nothing about his work has changed. He hasn't had any new referrals in a few days."

"Then maybe he's suddenly realised the futility of it all. Do you remind the nurses to lock the door to the roof?" Cuddy's pager bleeped loudly, but she silenced it almost without looking. "Damn – not answering your pager… means this is important."

"Look, I don't know if you two have had some kind of a fight or whatever, but…"



"-Yes, we had a furious drunken night of passion and now I won't call him. Oh, damn, you got me." House rolled his eyes. "Seriously – he's an adult, he can handle his problems."

"And you're an adult, and you clearly can't. That explanation does have the advantage of being the only thing I can think of that would have you both acting like this, whilst being so ridiculously outlandish that I wouldn't believe it in a million years." House read the suspicion in her eyes. O-Kay… time to backtrack.

"Hence why the fact that I replaced his meds with laxatives is more likely."

"Yes, it's more likely, but the laxatives thing is my trick, as you know… which forces me to the conclusion…" Ohhhhhh, God. Why did she never go for the double bluff? He did his best to keep his expression neutral; to stare her down. Not that it would work, of course: she was on to them.

Cuddy saw the sudden tautening of the jaw and flash of the eye that she had had occasion to discover meant that House had been caught out, and struggled to stifle her own surprise. After a few tortuous seconds of consideration, though, curiosity won over.

"Seriously?"

"You don't believe it, do you?" He smiled serenely. "The best weapon is surprise." Well, now she knew, his best strategy was to make it look as though he had engineered it that way; as though he was still puppeteering the conversation.

"Well, do I have any choice but to believe it?" House bowed his head; an indication, despite his demeanour, that was still uncomfortable with this. "So is it over between you two? I don't mean, like… I mean, the last fifteen years… is it finished?"

House had to chuckle. All the time he had known the woman, and she still clung to the belief that if she was persistent enough, he would cave and tell her everything. That boat sailed, of course, a long time ago: struck an iceberg almost as soon as it had set off, in fact. And now, there was no need for her to know about this, but she wanted to. Well, no amount of wanting would extract any information from him: objective, subjective or otherwise.

"Do you honestly think I'm going to tell you anything? Wilson will give you the details, and explain in depth the whole horrible emotional torture of the situation. I, happily, am immune."

"It was worth a try." She stood up straight… now, where was Wilson likely to be? "I'm sure you already know what you're going to do, but I don't know whether the whole thing is perfect or stupid… make the right call." As she got to the door, she didn't acknowledge the murmur that followed her out:

"The team don't need to know." Yes, they didn't need to know… but why didn't they? He was vocal enough about his apparent flock of prostitutes and internet porn stash, so why not this? Could he be… ashamed, perhaps? Ah, well; she would get more out of Wilson.

House caught the door with his foot, and watched as Cuddy vanished through the exit towards reception and the lifts. As soon as she disappeared from view, he followed her path, making his way out of the front doors, ignoring the nodded salutations of Chase and Cameron; back from 

lunch. He could go up to his balcony: Wilson was in his office, and he may well be able to eavesdrop. But then, did he want to hear what Wilson really thought? He slowed, considering his options. He might be better-equipped to deal with him that way, but then, Wilson wouldn't be happy about the conversation being listened into.

In an instant, he made up his mind.


	6. Chapter 6

Cuddy found Wilson at his desk, seemingly engrossed in an old medical journal, when she pushed open the door after her knock went unanswered. He looked up at her arrival, and set down the thick magazine hastily.

"Dr Cuddy, is there a problem?"

"Well, I'd like to think not. Though that's not my call."

"Very cryptic." He waited for her to elaborate, pulling his tie straight. She was hesitant, looking to be choosing her words carefully.

"I… was just speaking to House down in the clinic." She paused again, to give him the opportunity to interject. Wilson just looked at her, though, his expression as unreadable as House's had been initially. "He told me that… something had gone on between you two."

Christ, how much did she know? He didn't think House would have given away a lot… but then, he wouldn't have expected him to tell her in the first place.

"You… know?" Seeing his panic, she sat down.

"He didn't want to tell me; I called his bluff. But he wouldn't say anything else."

"And you're hoping I will?" Having digested this news, Wilson appeared to have recovered sufficiently to regard her motives with some suspicion. "Is it important that you know?"

"I'm concerned for you: Dr Stone told me about your requests to have your meds increased. I wouldn't like to think that there's something going on that you couldn't talk about anyway, obviously, but that this… thing is with House, it must make it a lot more difficult."

Wilson was damned if he was going to be receptive about this: he hadn't had any intention of going to Cuddy with this in the first place; hadn't had any intention of going to anybody. If she wanted to know anything, she was going to have to work to get it.

"Sorry, but I don't see why you need to know."

"You're right; I don't need to know. You don't have to say anything, of course… but I will need to know if it starts affecting your work. I mean, what happens if you or House need a consult with each other? I trust you, but you know what House is like."

"I understand… but you don't need to know the details of what went on, and I'm not able to give you an emotional standpoint for the simple reason that I haven't figured out that standpoint yet."

"So you're undecided? Well, that at least signifies something."

"It's the furthest I've got, though. And, to be honest, are you really the best person to be receiving this? I know there was something between you and him." 

"That was a long time ago; not worth mentioning, or thinking about. It has no bearing on this."

"That's fair enough. I still can't tell you anything more though." He sighed. "Besides, in all likelihood, he's on the balcony next door, listening to every word."

"I doubt it: I left him in the clinic just now."

"Did he know you were coming up here?"

"He suggested it himself."

"Well, then." Cuddy nodded her concurrence, and, after a moment's thought, got to her feet and strode to the balcony door, throwing it open. Sure enough, House was reclining along the partition wall between the two balconies, wearing ridiculously oversized shades, which he lifted as she approached.

"'Sup, Cuddy? Want to catch some rays?" She raised her eyebrows at him, and he sat up reluctantly.

"How much have you heard?"

"Oh… all of it. In Glorious Technicolor. Well, the sound wasn't, but the imagination is a wonderful tool – talking of which, why is nothing you say ever morally or sexually ambiguous?" She ignored him.

"Well, since you're so keen to participate, why don't you come in here and get the full benefit?" Shrugging, House manoeuvred himself onto Wilson's side and lead her back into the office, favouring a seat on the desk. Cuddy caught Wilson's strained grin as they came in, but didn't give herself a chance to consider the ethics of the situation. As far as she was concerned, they could sort out their differences then and there. Not to mention that she was curious about the whole thing.

Surprisingly, the other two seemed reluctant to speak, so she instigated the conversation.

"It doesn't matter to me which way this thing goes, as long as it comes to some sort of conclusion. Since neither of you want to talk to a middle ground, I may as well lock you in a room together and wait an hour." House winced.

"Oh, no… you know where that'll go." He winked theatrically, and added in a stage whisper, "The man's insatiable…" Cuddy glanced at Wilson, who was flushing, but appeared to be taking it in his stride.

"Why do I get the impression you're not taking this seriously?"

"Why are you deluding yourself that you need to?"

"Because, as I explained to Wilson, I don't trust your maturity. If you need to work together – which you will do – are you telling me that you'll act like an adult?" To House's lack of response, she nodded. "Didn't think so, somehow. Now, you can either settle this with sharp implements or by talking." This was immediately met with protests by House; Wilson remaining silent.

"We've already talked. We had an emotionally-charged conversation in the janitor's closet, which ended in much the same way that this is going to: with no headway made. So you may as well get the pretty speeches over with and leave us to ferment in our own tragically-denied passion."

"Fine." Cuddy turned to Wilson. "Is that what you think?"

"To be honest…? Yes. I think it's going to resolve itself on its own, somehow."

House looked as though he was going to reply, but Cuddy quelled him with a sharp glance.

"It won't go away on its own… so, you're going to just keep avoiding each other's gaze forever?"

"Eye contact was what got us into this in the first place…"

"-Shut it, House," House appeared stunned at the sharpness of Wilson's tone; Wilson himself looked a little taken-aback, but he continued anyway. "-just for a minute. Cuddy's right – it's not going to go away on its own. But I don't think it's time yet to talk about it… particularly in the presence of a third party." He uttered this last part as an apology, which Cuddy waved off. "But I don't really see the need to behave any differently."

"So you're just going to keep on pretending everything's normal, while you OD on antidepressants to make yourself believe that it is, and torture yourself over whether this could be the reason for all the failed marriages…?"

"Yes, House, I am, unless you have any better ideas." House shrugged in response. Cuddy was surprised – she could barely remember him ever having backed down before.

"Well, if you want to be miserable, who am I to stop you?" With that, House got abruptly to his feet and left the room through the main door, walking as levelly as he could. Neither Wilson nor Cuddy made any move to stop him, but Wilson, rubbing his face in a study of exhaustion, made his way to the window. Cuddy watched him, but he remained motionless for some minutes. Finally, she followed him over, putting a tentative hand on his arm. He shrugged it off, shaking his head, his eyes screwed shut.

"Sorry." She spoke in a whisper, and left as quietly as she could.

When Wilson could bring himself to open his eyes again, he found the room empty. Glancing out of the window, he caught sight of House back on his balcony, staring at him. As soon as he realised he had been seen, House looked away, before retreating, out of sight. Wilson toyed with the idea of going out there, but it didn't take long for him to decide against it.

Cuddy was right. This wasn't going to go away by itself – but he hadn't a clue how to precipitate the conclusion, and House appeared in no mood to be of assistance. The thing was… after House's outburst, he had virtually given up on the idea that they would… continue, for wont of a better word. And it seemed to him that this was the reason his misery had increased tenfold in the past five minutes.

He pulled the blinds and settled himself in the desk chair, absorbing himself once more in the journal he had been perusing. Try as he might, though, he couldn't take in a single word.


	7. Chapter 7

In the absence of any suitable cases with which to distract himself, House had taken to spending inordinate amounts of time in the clinic. Usually, when he was bored, he would spend the time irritating Wilson, and he knew that that was what he should be doing now, but he couldn't bring himself to, somehow. If it became necessary to spend time with Wilson, he accepted it: more to satisfy Cuddy than because he wanted to, but he made a point of ignoring him. He couldn't help, though, but to observe Wilson. He had been trying to convince himself that Wilson could take care of himself, that this was just an opportunity to prove that… but it didn't appear to be coming into fruition. And, much as he hated the fact, he severely doubted that he would be able to look after himself, either.

It was stupid, really. They could both see that there was no possible advantage to be gained from this separation, but still they clutched at it doggedly. As if that would help things. But House didn't want Wilson to know that he really wasn't coping, just in case… and he suspected that this was Wilson's thinking, too, but he couldn't be sure, and he had no intention of instigating such a fraught conversation, and – oh, this was ridiculous! Something so petty, and neither of them could stop thinking about it. Reason dictated that he should just march next door and tell Wilson to pull himself together; that he could have House or he couldn't, and he didn't care either way… but every time he summoned the nerve; got as far as walking to the door, he stopped himself.

Still, though, he couldn't keep himself from watching Wilson's every move for signs that he was going too far. Something he'd never let the man know before now was that he cared, and he regretted that every day that the two passed in the corridor, not making eye contact, quickening their pace.

So far, he seemed safe from the curiosity of his team, though he doubted it would last much longer. He had had to force himself to meet the enquiring gaze of Cameron, when Wilson had stopped by in the departmental office and been blatantly ignored, with brash acrimony, but that sort of thing rarely saw her off for long. Doubtless, though, she would disappear off to Cuddy's office to get the latest news from the front, and House would be left guessing as to what she had been told.

Sure enough, the questions came, but not from that particular flank. Sitting at his desk, immersed in his newest version of Metroid, he looked up to find Forman in the doorway. He didn't beat about the bush.

"Is there something going on between you and Wilson?"

"No; he's just succumbing to a bad bout of the clap – I wouldn't fall for any of his advances in the near future if I were you."

"Cameron thinks-"

"Hang on – Cameron thinks?"

"She decided you were more likely to talk to me." Ah. So that explained it: he was a mere spokesperson for Diagnostics Ltd.



"And since when do you do anything Cameron tells you to do?" He put down the games console. "And you'd better be quick: I only pressed pause on this thing." Forman shook his head, smiling.

"Look, I don't want to be here any more than you want me to be here, so can you just give me the sort of lie that'll keep her occupied for a few days and stop her from chewing our ears off about it?"

"You want a lie? So…. it has rubbed off on you. OK…" He pretended to cast around for a bit of scandal that would pass Cameron's discerning taste. "…how about… we had a night of fervent drunken passion and now I won't call him back?" Forman laughed.

"That's far-fetched, even for you. Thanks." With which he retreated to the diagnostics office. House turned down the sound on his game and strained to hear the ensuing conversation, but all he could make out was a dull rumble from Forman. This was punctuated, though, by an exclamation of surprise that could only have come from Cameron – unless he had been missing an awful lot more than he'd previously thought by moping around in his office, and Chase had completed the gender transformation process. After this, he could only make out snatches of the heated debate that appeared to be following. Normally, when this happened, he would bestow his presence upon the room, and allow them to continue their dispute within earshot – and he was interested to see their response. Stretching and rising, he slipped into the room, which was filled with a guilty silence the moment the door slid shut.

"If anyone asks, I'm not here…" he began, taking a seat at the table. When they remained silent, he looked at them questioningly. "What? Carry on, carry on… or were you discussing the latest scandals? You know that new nurse on the fifth floor? Turns out she isn't a she…"

Finally, it was Chase who summoned the courage to speak up: Forman was at the coffee machine, apparently unconcerned with the whole charade, whilst Cameron was staring at him blankly.

"Is it true?"

"Do you think it's true?" House scoffed.

"I… no…" Chase grinned, hesitantly.

"Well, then. You see where the perpetual quest for office gossip will get you?" With that, he glared sidelong at Cameron, who reddened.

"It's just…"

"It's just nothing." Looking suitably abashed, Cameron got up.

"Going to the lab. You coming?" She looked significantly at Chase, who shrugged and followed her out, glancing apologetically at House as he left. Once he was certain they'd gone, House turned to Forman.

"If they suspect anything, you know what to do." With a wink, he left in the opposite direction to that the other two had taken, leaving a bemused-looking Forman with half a cup of coffee. 

Oh, but it was fun to play with them: for all their newfound confidence, they were some of the few people in this hospital with whom he could still play the double-bluff card…. The smile faded from his face. Christ knows, he could do with a bit of a diversion right now.


	8. Chapter 8

Wilson had three new patients: an elderly gentleman with Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma, a younger woman with a brain stem tumour, and a boy whom he had yet to formally diagnose. As he sat poring over the x-rays, it occurred to him that there was barely any point to this. The man had served his time pretty much anyway, the woman… well, she was inoperable. She wasn't likely to see the week out; all he could do was give her painkillers and tell her it was going to be alright when he knew full well that it wasn't. The boy had suspected bone cancer – mild, as cancer went. Yet his chances of going into complete remission were slim to none. They could amputate the leg, but even if that cured him, he would still only have one leg.

He left the x-rays in an untidy pile on his desk; the boy wouldn't die in the next ten minutes. As he reached his door, he had to stop and turn back, though… what were his patients' names? He tried to remember them, but try as he might, he couldn't recall him. Mortified, he reached for the files: Jack, Irene and Adam.

He couldn't believe himself. No matter how tough a case was; no matter how bleak the outlook, the names were always the first detail he looked at and the last one he forgot, and yet… he was hard-pressed to recall the names even of the two patients who had been discharged last week. Momentarily, he considered referring the matter to Forman or some other local neurologist, but as he thought about it, he was ashamed to admit that he hadn't been particularly bothered. Of course, he'd cared about the patients – nothing would be able to call a halt to that – but he hadn't… he hadn't cared enough. He didn't care enough.

The original reason for leaving the office had been to go and see the woman; Irene: she'd probably want her morphine increased by now, but on his way, Wilson found his mind wandering – to nothing in particular. The Spanish soap opera that had been on when he'd got back to his flat last night, the fact that the multi-storey car park's sole remaining lift was out of order, that he really should be picking up his repeat prescription today.

Christ – Irene! Without even thinking, Wilson had passed her room, and was halfway to the pathology labs, of all places. Turning back on himself, immediately, he sped up, and arrived at her room slightly out of breath. There was already a nurse in the room when he got there, who put a finger to her lips.

"She's asleep at the moment. I just increased her morphine: was that ok?" Wilson nodded slowly, stopping dead.

"That's… fine, thanks. I was on my way to do that myself…" The nurse smiled, and left the room, and Wilson sank into the chair next to the bed. He should have been the one to look after her; to make sure she wasn't in pain, and he had been wandering around in a daze, thinking about Spanish soap operas, of all things! What if she'd had an incident during that time: would he have got the page in time…? Instinctively, he reached to his belt, where he kept his pager, but his fingers just met smooth leather. The pager was… oh, God. In his confusion when he left the office, he'd left the pager on his desk.

He rested his head on the heel of his hand. What was happening to him…? He tried to bring the situation into perspective: he was experiencing a bit of stress, so he had been a little forgetful over the past few days. Everybody did it from time to time: in a department such as Oncology, it was pretty much expected. The nurses' jobs were to look after the patients: to see that they were comfortable. In reality, nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

But Wilson couldn't help feeling accountable for his actions. These people had precious little hope, some of them, and they relied on their doctors to provide continuity of care and to be there for them, but Wilson had been so wrapped up in himself… sure, House got away with it, but House was House, and – no, they weren't even going there. Wilson retained his sense of self-worth by believing that his patients needed him; that he was indispensable. That he cared about his patients - that made him human; that made him a good person. But this woman, at death's door… what did she care who treated her, as long as she didn't have to spend her last days in agony? The job could just as easily be done by any of the nurses; perhaps more easily, indeed, as it was part of their job not to get too involved with their patients. Sure, his patients appreciated a doctor who looked the part, who acted compassionate when it came to telling them they were about to kick the bucket, but couldn't any doctor do that? He was sure the patients didn't care whether or not their doctors actually felt anything for them, as long as they weren't being treated like crap. As long as they were made to feel special. And, of course, they were perfectly justified in that: they were dying, so they deserved a few weeks or months in which to be mollycoddled and made to feel like the only important person in the world.

He didn't believe in an afterlife. Not really. It was a beautiful idea, yes, but there was no soul that continued on some immortal journey; that lived on after the body died. So what was he doing, wasting his time wringing his hands and remembering those patients of his who died? When they were alive, they wanted to be remembered – perhaps it was their dying wish. But why should their dying wishes be entertained any more than any of their other wishes? Sure, their death was tragic, but hundreds of thousands of people died every day, and was he expected to remember every one of those? Or just the people he met? But then, it was like House said: why were those people any more deserving of his pity? Of his memory?

House _again_. A week since the incident with Cuddy, and he'd hoped that he was finally beginning to put it to the back of his mind and get on with life. It seemed that his mind had other ideas, though…

The woman stirred, and he glanced up sharply.

"Irene? Irene, are you alright?" But she merely shifted position, and continued to sleep. There he was, watching a dying patient, and again he was thinking about other things. About House.

What the hell was he doing? He had just sat there and reasoned that none of this was worth his time. Shocked at his own selfishness, he reached across and took Irene's hand. Even then, though, his mind was racing over the possibilities. Why was he doing this – any of this? Because it gave him a sense of fulfilment, and a sense of self-worth. But… but he wasn't indispensable; far from it. His patients wouldn't be bothered who they had treating them, in the long run. Why should he get a sanctimonious feeling of self-righteousness by showing compassion that he didn't need to and that his patients weren't interested in? He had no right. No right at all, either to feel self-righteous, or, indeed, to feel that he was important. Just one more self-centred speck of dirt crawling around, believing that they were making a difference.

Irene did not move again, so he withdrew his hand and hurried back to his office. He wasn't on call; he could leave pretty much when he wanted. There were probably runny noses to wipe and scared parents to reassure downstairs, but what did that matter? More ego-stroking? He had no need of it. He filed away the x-rays, and, locking his office, made his way down to the car park.

It wasn't until he was halfway home that he realised that, for the first time in a month, he had passed House's office without craning his neck to look inside.


	9. Chapter 9

When even the tedium of the multitudinous sniffles became too much for House, he signed out, and left without stopping upstairs for a valedictory speech. He had taken to stowing his bag in Exam Room One for precisely that purpose, and yet nobody on his team appeared to have noticed; or if they did, they were enjoying his absence.

There had been no more questions – no more strange looks. Even Cuddy appeared to have relaxed. And yet he and Wilson were more distant than they had ever been – to such an extent that he was no longer certain if the man wore the paisley tie on a Tuesday or a Thursday.

Stupid idea, anyway, to wear ties on certain days of the week.

When he got back, House found that the stereo had switched itself off, and the front door creaked disquieteningly loudly in the silence. His ears were still ringing with the noise of the motorbike, though, so it was some time before it occurred to him to turn on the TV, which he collapsed in front of with his usual whiskey and half-empty bottle of Vicodin. He noted with some interest that there were more pills than usual, though, which must've meant he hadn't taken very many today. Wilson's theory on psychological pain manifesting itself physically was a load of bull, then – either that, or he wasn't actually in any psychological pain. Quite frankly, though, he could barely focus on the news bulletins for the way in which his mind darted restlessly from topic to topic – always returning, of course, to Wilson.

House turned slowly, as he heard a key grating in the front door. It opened equally slowly, though he already knew who it would be: only one person had a spare key. But why hadn't he knocked?

Wilson was looking particularly dishevelled, he noticed: he hadn't shaved in a day or so, and his hair was all over the place, to say nothing of the un-ironed state of his clothes. None of this seemed to matter, though. Masking his confusion, House allowed a smile to break momentarily over his lips as he rose to greet the man.

"What are you doing here?" Wilson shook his head, and crossed the room, edging through the narrow gap between the sofa and the coffee table before they stood facing one another. House didn't move, though he knew that this could only end one of two ways, and he didn't see a gun concealed about Wilson's person.

When Wilson didn't move, either, House decided. Gradually, he brought a hand towards the younger man's face, and, when he didn't flinch, allowed it to rest against the trembling jawbone. The muscles were firm under his hand as Wilson gritted his teeth, meeting his eyes with intensity in his gaze that so shook House that he momentarily forgot who it was.

Not for long, though: Wilson staggered forwards, bringing his hands around the back of House's neck, and House had barely a second to register the dampness of his cheek before their mouths were locked in an embrace as tight and frantic as that of their bodies. There were textbooks littered over one end of the sofa: without losing contact, House half-led, half-dragged Wilson back along the corridor to his bedroom. The cold air from the open window touched his skin instantly, but he relished it, revelling in the goose bumps that leaped to attention on his arms, only to be subdued by Wilson's warm flesh seconds after appearing. Tumbling backwards, he struggled again with the belt, though Wilson was on hand this time to lend his assistance. The draught blew in on them, until House could no longer distinguish between shivers of cold and those of ecstasy. He felt his muscles flex involuntarily; felt endless spasms 

rend his body. He felt tears spring from his eyes; simultaneous tears of pleasure and of hopelessness, and he allowed Wilson to grasp with tensed fingers at the raw flesh of his back and chest, delighting in every tiny instant of pain. Gasping, he let Wilson take over completely. Usually, he did anything to stay in control; tonight, he relinquished his mind; his very life to the man who desperately gripped his shoulders, bracing himself, and twisting as much as he dared to again meet with his lips in a riot; an explosion of colour and sound and sensation and… and… and…

It was the nonsensical jingle of the ad break that woke House up, and he hastily righted the tumbler that had tipped over with a crack when his leg had shot out to the side upon waking.

It took him a few moments to remember where he was, during which he scanned the room almost hysterically, looking for any indication that it might have happened; that Wilson had been here. As he came round, though, the fear subsided, to be replaced by a feeling of complete anguish. The door, as far as he could see, was firmly locked, and he knew that he hadn't moved from where he had sat shortly after coming in. He gazed blearily at the clock: half past nine. The darkness outside told him that it was evening. Sighing, he got up to retrieve another bottle of Vicodin. After the amount he'd had already, it would be irresponsible to have anything more to drink, but… what the hell. He abandoned the tumbler in favour of the dregs of the last bottle he had, which he downed in one, before settling back down, and flicking the TV off. He could do without any more disturbances.

In the ensuing silence, however, his thoughts drifted to the dream. Already it was hazy, but, though he tried to push it from his mind, its significance dawned on him. What did the details matter, right now? All he cared about was seeing Wilson; he got as far as to pick up the phone. But this shouldn't be done over the phone. This should be done face-to-face, and screw the consequences.

He left the lamp on, but turned and buried his face in the soft, dense cushions of the sofa. The darkness; the closeness was ideal, and he lay perfectly still, willing sleep to come again, which, mercifully, it did.


	10. Chapter 10

He knew that he couldn't go on like this. It had been – what? – A month since The Evening. Those four weeks may as well have been four years to Wilson. Four years in which he'd interacted with the word as expected, but could no longer ward off that terrible numbness that

House seemed to have fed him. Sure, everyone thought it looked the same – the questions had stopped coming now; it was old news - but House was different. He wouldn't make eye contact with Wilson, wouldn't come to him with his usual niggles. And the gaze... the one that House had invented specially for Wilson, it seemed. The one that made Wilson feel a million miles from any House he had once known, and even further from the House of that evening…

God, he was rambling to himself. That was not a good sign. But as he shook the last two pills out into his hand, he had to acknowledge to himself the fact that he was breaking. And he knew it was ridiculous, and that his reaction to what was in essence a very minor incident was more telling about him than he'd like to admit, but he could do without all that Freudian analysis right now.

While he pretended to be the same, he could cling to his little routines - the familiar things which let him be a person – as if they were life itself. He could imagine. He could remove his shoes – left first, then right. He could carefully fold his trousers along the creases and hang them on the left of the wardrobe. His shirt went into the washing machine; the same with his socks and underpants. He showered, he brushed his teeth, and he went to bed. Everything was hunky-dory, A-OK.

But the night James Wilson kicked his shoes off, slung his shirt and trousers over the back of a chair and fell back into bed on top of the covers, he knew he had given up.

It came to him in a dream, almost. Still bleary with sleep, stumbling as he got accustomed to the cold night air, Wilson made his way down to the garage. After a few tedious moments of hastily arranging everything, he climbed into the car, wound down the window, and leaned out to grab the plastic tube. He gave it a sharp tug, and nodded his satisfaction when it didn't give way. He closed the window, leaving the end lodged in place. He stuffed the gaps with the pillowcases he'd brought with him, and gripped the key, poised to turn in the ignition.

And he didn't move.

He forced his mind to stay on track – it had begun to wander. Flitting images flashed under his eyelids, desperately screwed shut. He was almost watching a recording being rewound.

And every time, that piercing, reproachful, steely blue…

House.

There was no-one about. He let a single, strangled cry burst out of his throat, and threw open the door. He yanked the tubing off of the exhaust and flung it on the back seat, along with the pillowcases. He clicked the key round in the ignition, and drove.

He stopped in the street outside number 221. Three in the morning, but House would come with him. He had to. Grabbing the flat's spare key, he got out, talking care to close the door quietly - no point in waking the neighbours. He let himself into the hallway, and from there pushed into House's flat.



The living room lamp was on, and House was slumped comatose on the sofa – doubtless the end product of the cocktails of whiskey and Vicodin which were in evidence, strewn across the coffee table. He stirred briefly as Wilson clicked the door closed, and groaned. Wilson called him softly.

"House?"

"Wha-?" His eyes flicked open, and he registered Wilson's presence. He seemed to be considering the implications of this through a Vicodin fog for a moment, but gradually pulled himself upright, grimacing as he straightened his leg. Wilson was in no mood to be charitable tonight, though. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jacket: even that didn't do much to ward off the chill.

"Come with me. Now." He jerked his head towards the door, and House, still docile as he attempted to come to his senses, obliged, retrieving his cane from the floor and struggling to his feet. Wilson wordlessly escorted him out of the door, across the hallway, over the pavement and into the front passenger seat – hurrying round to occupy the driving seat himself. House had finally woken up, and turned to him as they belted up.

"What's going on? It's stupid o' clock…"

"I know."

"So… where are we going? Chuck E. Cheese is closed, you know…."

"We're going for a drive."

"Right." He seemed satisfied for the moment, and faced front. Wilson pulled into the empty street and navigated them out of the suburbs, into the city.

Driving was surprisingly dreary. An hour ago, Wilson had been too keyed-up to do anything coherently, but the driving had dulled his senses – lulled him into the monotonous rhythm of the road. He watched the houses flooding past on the roadside out of the corner of his eye, and settled deeper into the seat.

Presently, House spoke again.

"What's that in the back seat?"

"What does it look like?"

"Are you planning on trying to off us both?"

"Not right now, no." House was silent for a moment. Piecing things together, Wilson supposed.

"The end of the tube's got oil on it."

"Yeah."



"When?" Wilson didn't bother asking him to elaborate.

"Just before I left for your place."

"Oh." Another pause, "I don't get it."

"Why not?"

"You're on antidepressants. They should balance it out."

"Yeah, well, the prescription didn't account for the fact that my best friend was going to screw me over."

"We've been through this. I'm not going into it again."

"How does that help anything, though?"

"Who says it should? You want to talk emotions, go see a shrink. You know you won't get anything from me." Wilson, though he was concentrating on staying on the road, thought he could detect a hint of… well; he wasn't sure what it was. Restraint? Melancholy?

"God, if I thought a shrink would be any use, do you think we'd be in this situation at all?"

"Fine. Then at least be straight with me. Tell me if you want this to continue-"

"-That's the thing." Wilson thumped the steering wheel. "I don't know what I want… what I expect from you…"

"Stop the car."

"What?"

"Just stop the car." Groaning, Wilson pulled into the car park of a Taco Bell, and turned to face House.

"What is it?"

"Even if I wanted to, I couldn't contribute anything useful at the moment. You need to make a decision. Do you want me, or do you need me?"

Wilson shook his head, incredulously. The very words made him feel sick. Interpreting the silence, House answered for him.

"Both, I suspect." Wilson began to protest, but House quelled him with the second of fire in his glare. "We all know you need me. We've been through it before – you need neediness. S'what got you those divorces. S'why you became an oncologist. What you don't want to admit is that you want me. I'm the only one who makes you feel anything…" Wilson leaned forwards on the steering wheel, his head in his hands.



"…when we were together that night, you felt at ease. It was different, wasn't it? With your wives, you always felt detached, even though it was enjoyable enough. But us... there's something dangerous. The feeling that you could break at any moment, but there's this one shred of emotion that's pulling you all together, making you whole, for the first time in your life-"

"For God's sake, House. I don't want you. I never fucking wanted you."

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks."

Wilson couldn't speak. He let a low whimper escape from his lips as House leaned over and pressed his mouth to his own. He tried not to respond, not to let him get the upper hand but he knew there was to be no more pretending. As he reached a hand up to the back of House's neck, pulling the two of them still closer together, House realised. Well, he'd known all along, of course. But the real knowledge came when Wilson gave in: surrendered himself to House completely.

It was starting to get light outside.

He was taken back, all of a sudden, to The Evening. It was ridiculous; juvenile. Utterly stupid, to have spent a month pining and fretting over the events of one slightly-inebriated night. Still, he had always known, he supposed, that it wouldn't come to nothing. They had been friends for far too long for nothing to have come of it.

And he closed his eyes, allowing House's silhouette to sear briefly against the abrupt blackness before fading into fireworks of red and green and yellow. He didn't want House – didn't even need him – and yet... and yet he saw that he did, more plainly right now than he felt House's insistent touch, tugging at the waistband of Wilson's slacks through the thick, heavy folds of the overcoat he had already shed, gripping the back of his neck as though embracing the force with which they pushed against each other, and again, as their lips locked in a sinuous dance, with the hot, sharp gusts of air which mingled together as they both panted and struggled for oxygen to maintain them...

A flat rapping sound reverberated around the car interior, and they froze. Wilson didn't dare look up, but spoke, his forehead still pressed hard against House's.

"Crap, House... what do we do?" House raised a disbelieving eyebrow, the puckering of the skin forcing Wilson's own brow taut.

"Seriously? We're both adults..." He lurched away, not bothering to reinstate the various clothing items which lay loosely about him, and reached across to the driver's window, winding it right down. His features suddenly assumed what Wilson guessed was an approximation of a winning smile. "Good evening, officer."

A face peered in at them, and a pen-torch flickered on, reflecting wetly in the police officer's eyes.

"Evening? It's not exactly a sociable time of night..."



"Oh, I don't know about that..." God. Wilson winced, leaning back in the seat, desperate not to draw attention to himself – excruciatingly aware all the time of the chill against his uncovered chest. It was something of a gamble to play that sort of game with the officer; out of the corner of his eye, Wilson could see him glancing thoughtfully into the car. Finally, he appeared to come to some kind of a decision.

"Well, I better not ask you two gentlemen to step out of the car-" he spoke with what he evidently considered to be a wry grin, "but you should know that this place is pretty visible, so..."

"It's not as though we're going to be getting up to anything inappropriate..." Cue another winning grin.

"You could have fooled me."

"No, honestly – bum leg." Obligingly, House gestured towards the revealed scarring on his thigh. The officer saw it, and averted his gaze quickly.

"Yeah, well – bum leg, or no bum leg, I'll be back in ten minutes. If you're not gone by ten, you'll be accompanying me to the precinct."

Clearly considering his duty done, the officer turned smartly, and the pair of them watched him stride back to the motorcycle he'd parked at the side of the road.

After some moments, House wound the window back into place, and looked at Wilson.

"If you're going to have encounters with the police, it's better to be in a car with manually-winding windows. Adds a certain nostalgia to the proceedings." Wilson nodded, slowly – as House had been addressing the police officer, he had realised with a strange stabbing sensation in his chest that there would indeed be nothing going on in the car, what with House's leg, and the openness of the site...

House looked at him.

"What? You didn't actually expect us to get up to anything in here?" H sighed. "That's why God invented limos with blacked-out windows, I guess."

"I thought the exhibitionist in you would enjoy that sort of prospect?"

"Well, I don't know about you, but men in uniform just don't do it for me. Women in exploitative latex, on the other hand..." Wilson didn't respond. Those sorts of images had never really held any interest for him, but he was probably ill-advised to make a point of that right now.

"He's going to be back soon."

"Yeah, you're right..." House conceded, "you want to come back to mine for a movie?"

"House, it's four in the morning."



"What, d'you have somewhere you need to be?" Wilson shook his head, playing down the challenge. He was going to have to drop House anyway... what did it matter, really?

"That's great – though I should warn you, I'm currently a sucker for Mary Poppins."

"I'm sure you've been looking forward to the first opportunity to crack open those chocolate-covered marshmallow bunnies you seem so fond of."

Wilson let House reach across to redo his buttons, and couldn't resist the shiver that passed through his as the man's hand brushed against his navel. He grasped House's wrist as he turned back to his own seat.

"Do we have to...?"

"Yes." House spoke firmly, pulling free. "And it's going to be a longer wait if we sit around here waiting to be towed off to the precinct."

"OK..." Wilson permitted himself several deep breaths, and turned the ignition key.

Strange, that after a month of concerted effort to avoid each other, they had come together again as though nothing had happened. On the short drive back, he tentatively gave voice to these thoughts.

"That's because nothing _did _happen." House's reply was crisp, and Wilson was forced to agree. Besides the Cuddy-sponsored debates, there had been nothing particularly to estrange them. Up until a couple of hours ago, Wilson could have suggested that it was the events of The Evening – God, he even _thought _about it in capital letters – which had been the issue, but the more he looked at it, the less he could imagine how he had got that notion into his head. Now, the button on his slack still undone, he glanced across into the rear-view mirror at House, who was in a similar state of undress. How could this not have been natural – inevitable, even? The reason why it had never really crossed his mind until recently still eluded him. For something that should have been wrong, it felt pretty right.

Still... he returned his attention to the road. What was the point in speculating? The fact was, it was going to happen. It was a good thing. Hell, people at work seemed to get off on imagining what they'd got up to, so what was the harm in humouring them?


	11. Chapter 11

No matter where they set off from, the journey to House's flat was always quicker than Wilson anticipated, and he found that he had pulled up outside and climbed out of the car without really registering it – he was only brought to his senses by House slamming the passenger door.

The moment of clarity didn't last, though, only persisting until seconds after the flat door was safely closed behind them, and they dragged each other through the darkened corridor to House's room, bypassing the darkened lounge, the TV still burbling away to itself in the corner.

All sense of reality by then had completely dissipated, replaced by the contorted carnival colours rushing from nowhere to nowhere inside his head. As he dragged every last ounce of air he could manage into his lungs, Wilson breathed into House's ear.

"I... I..." Gulping hard, stifling the sudden tears that threatened to spring forth, he let House guess the rest.

"You always wanted it." He nodded, relieved, gasping; fighting for every breath as he felt his body succumbing to House's deceptively strong arms. The muscle was visibly running to seed with encroaching middle age... but then, Wilson was aware that he wasn't in the best of shape.

He almost found his mind wandering, contemplating whether or not the man (to say 'the man' in this position, whilst feeling himself responding in wholly unbroadcastable ways: delicious; he savoured it) ... whether or not House had ever rowed. The power and mass of his shoulders... but no. For his mind to wander was impossible. This time, he was going to anticipate and revel in every second; every thought-crushing, mind-numbing _nanosecond _of this. God, how many times had he lain there of an evening, face buried deep in the pillow, and recounted the garbled minutes of the last encounter, over and over, desperate to eke as many memories and sensations out of it as he could, yet finding the events distorted into a brief, heaving mass of energy and realisation and ecstasy...?

All of those tortuous hours, and he had not once allowed himself to imagine it happening again – neither to concoct fantasies as to the circumstances, nor even to entertain the possibility that such a thing could ever occur again. To imagine the unique rush as fingers scrambled through close-cropped hair, as hands reached along the smooth plane of chest below a creased shirt... how could anything he imagined even come close to describing the reality?

Hours dedicated to not permitting himself to daydream, and yet there was absolutely nothing he could do to impede the images that flooded into his head when he fell asleep. Awake, he could concentrate himself on remembering and craving the exhilaration as electrical signals ricocheted about inside him, and on feeling the twist of his stomach when pictures of House danced in his head, but his mind took over when he slept, focussing all of its attentions on the feeling of his groin pressed hard against House's warm flesh; the desperate shudders and suppressed moans that he felt and coveted in House's own lean frame even as he fought to keep his own responses under control, and then the agony – the bliss – as he had no choice but to let go, hand clawed deep into House's shoulders whilst he leaned forward to push the length of his body closer to House's and share the rush of blood and wildly-pumping heart.

On more than one occasion, he had been forced to expend an extra ten minutes, come morning, bundling the bed sheets into the washing machine, ashamed despite the certainty that there had been no-one to witness the sheer sacrilege of such a situation.



Because that was not how it had really happened: the ne time before, House had been in control, and Wilson was, as ever, happy to abandon all responsibility and to let him take over. But that was what had made the dreams so perfect: the thought that House would allow himself to be given over entirely. Christ, it sounded screwed-up, but it gave Wilson more satisfaction to believe that this man was – at last – entirely at ease in his company than it did to imagine them rolling around together on some rumpled bed or sofa. It meant more to Wilson to see House happy than to see him naked... and he knew that House would never be happy; never be comfortable... when he awoke after a night in which he saw image after image of House in a pose that he could never occupy, he would sit glaring at the window opposite the bed, speculating on just how easy it would be to push it open wide and launch himself out of it.

House's bedroom light was off, but the approaching dawn rendered this irrelevant. Not that it would have mattered, anyway – Wilson had found himself echoing precisely those movements of the unrelenting nights, as though he had been in perpetual dress rehearsal before now. Because, with scarcely a whisper, and after a hold so tight Wilson was sure he would be crushed, House had relinquished all control.

Hoarsely – incredulously – Wilson had uttered a few words.

"You trust me?" By way of reply, House had thrown a sardonic glance over his shoulder; one that was softened and distorted by the half-light into an expression that Wilson recognised with a jolt as the one with which he had noticed House casting so many furtive glances at him over the past weeks.

And that had cemented his belief.

There had been no time, though, to remember the dreams; no chance to reflect on what did and didn't constitute perfection: as much revulsion as Wilson held for physicality, all he could do was pull House as close as he dared, focussing on his lithe shoulder blades and back, and concentrate on the silent, deafening gasps and spasms of his best friend, clenching and tautening every muscle in his own body as his heart shrieked at him, until the torrent of blood coursing its way through him found its goal.

Lying spread-eagled across the bed, as he was now, with House hunched up beside him, Wilson finally dared to think again. After having watched the sun clamber up into the sky, only to be obscured by clouds, followed quickly by streaks of lightning and the delicate sound of thunder, he found his limbs trembling with exertion – with exhaustion. Shifting House's hand from where it had been resting, uncomfortably high up his thigh, he got up to draw the curtains, finally allowing the room to slip into darkness.

Still, there was no point in thinking about what had passed. Oh... god, he was thinking in euphemisms now. OK – there was no point in thinking about the fact that he had just screwed House? Uncouth, unsubtle, but it would do... anyway, there was no point thinking about it, because it was not the act which concerned him. That could be adequately described in any half-decent medical textbook, with any number of precise technical terms, or alternatively, with nauseatingly florid euphemism and metaphor – the route, of course, which he had descended; kicking and screaming, perhaps, but descended all the same. But he supposed that it was of no consequence particularly. Because the elation he felt as he picked out House's prone body on the bed – just a darker mass floating on a sea of black – was in the knowledge that House trusted him completely

And House was right, of course: dress it up how you like; make it seem as hopelessly romantic or as tragically clichéd as you can possibly bear, but in the end, it's always going to come down to sex.

2


	12. Chapter 12

F

orman wandered into House's office, nursing half a mug of coffee.

"I thought I asked for a fake scandal." House looked up from his magazine.

"I'm sure you did... what the hell are you talking about?"

"Seriously? Everyone on this floor's talking about you and Wilson."

"Ah." Well, this conversation wasn't going to improve anytime soon; House resumed his place in the magazine, propping a leg against the edge of the desk as he did so. Watching out of the corner of his eye, though, he saw Forman raise an eyebrow.

"Just thought you'd like to know, if you didn't already... seriously, though, why the hell'd you tell the truth?"

"Oh, come on, would I lie to you?" Forman wasn't falling for it. "Alright, because Cameron and Chase would instantly go into denial at the mere thought of my spurning them, so there'd be no questions, and you have the sense not to believe me in the first place. Either that, or your ghetto homophobia would conflict with the Hippocratic Oath and you'd have exploded, which would have been fascinating."

"What... so it's not true?"

"What do you care? I'm not going to make a pass at you... well, unless that's what you _want_, of course..."

"It is true, then." House ignored him.

"But I draw the line at bondage – I know your type, and I'm all for modern relationships, but there is nothing natural about trussing people to their own beds..." Forman sighed, and bean to turn away.



"Fine. I'll go find Wilson."

"You think he'll tell you anything? That'd ruin the surprise when you find his video diaries." House turned the page, "You seen this article? 'Atom Heart Mother'." He gestured towards the page in question. "Apparently, they can put a little electronic pulse in people's hearts to make them work now." Momentarily distracted, Forman glanced at the article being presented to him.

"That's an album review from... the 1970s. How old is that magazine?"

"Old enough to know better." Again ignoring Forman, but this time because he found the bafflement plastered across his face as he desperately tried to figure out if that phrase actually meant anything highly amusing. House made a show of discarding the pages in a flurry of glossy paper across his desk.

"Right... anyway, maybe Wilson won't say anything, but the rumour got out somehow. Cuddy's my bet."

"Well then, you'd better go find her." Forman nodded and headed toward the door, but stopped short.

"Hang on, why am I running all over the hospital to confirm some rumour when you could just say?"

"Because... I'm hideously embarrassed by the whole thing, or because I've booby-trapped Cuddy's office and need someone to test it on, or because I'm teaching you an important moral lesson in trying to meddle in things that are completely irrelevant. Take your pick."

"Great..." Forman glanced behind him, then stepped away from the door to admit Cameron.

"There are rumours all over the place-" She began.



"Yes, everything's true; video evidence can be found on Wilson's blog. Go and make out with Cuddy, and have Forman film it – we're thinking of setting up a sister site, to avoid all the gyp about sexism. Forman, if you could get hold of Chase sometime, too, we can cover the whole racial angle too... this is an equal-opportunities exploitative co-operative-" Forman held up a hand in remonstrance, and House piped down, reluctantly.

"OK, there's no point in going to Cuddy, because you've more or less confirmed it..." Cameron still appeared slightly bewildered, and after a second, she tentatively ventured,

"So... you and Wilson...?"

""I've just been through this entire conversation with Forman, and I'm sure he'll be happy to fill you in _on the way to Cuddy's office with a film camera, _won't you, Forman?" Not particularly paying attention, Forman nodded.

"Excellent. Now, the 'Greg House Reveals all' show scheduled to finish five minutes ago. Begone."

As Forman and Cameron finally turned to leave, Wilson burst in through the diagnostics office door, slightly flushed, tie askew.

"God, House, they're talking about it all over the floor. How did word get out...?" He stopped, suddenly noticing the other two, and looked down, reddening further. "Sorry... didn't realise... I'll be back later..." he had departed again before House had the chance to formulate a sentence. His mouth opened briefly, then closed again, as he glared at the other two.

"See, this is why you and Cuddy making out is a good idea – if you'd left half a minute after receiving my instructions, instead of procrastinating about the possibility of my telling you that Wilson and I are screwing each other... the film would be on my desk by now." He 

did his best to rein in his annoyance; it was clear enough that the rumours had been proved right, but there was no need to show them that he actually _cared – _start that sort of behaviour, and he'd be a walkover by Christmas.

Obligingly, Forman and Cameron left, the latter throwing a quizzical look in his direction, and House, after waiting a few minute s to be sure that the coast was clear, got to his feet to seek out Wilson.

He didn't have to go far: Wilson had retreated to his office, but had left the door ajar, so that House could see through the crack that the younger man out on the balcony, leaning against the wall. For a minute, he considered going to him through the office, but quickly discounted it: it would give people less to speculate about if they were seen just to be chatting across the wall from their own respective balconies.

Going back to his own office, he took a moment - to think, and more importantly, to give Wilson a little more breathing space.

After he judged that enough time had passed, he breezed out of his door.

" I don't know who let on..." Wilson whipped around, startled, but after recognising House, turned back to gaze out onto the street below.

"Don't suppose it matters – rumours pass, anyway."

"What, you expect to keep it a secret forever?" When Wilson looked up, House gestured for him to come closer. Wilson did so, slowly, and House reached out to straighten his collar and tie, with a grimace. "It was bugging me."

"You haven't brushed your hair in a week, and a wonky tie bugs you?" Wilson shrugged. "Fair enough... and honestly, I haven't given it a lot of thought."

"Well, you didn't think twice about marrying any of your wives. What's the difference?"

"Marriage is... well, just look where that ended up. And this... I dunno, it's going to take some getting used to."

"I can rest easy in the knowledge that it's not commitment that's the problem?"

"you're fine there... come on, I'm Jewish. Contravention doesn't come easy..."

"You don't keep Kosher, you don't observe Shabbat, you eat Chinese on Christmas day. It's a fair guess that, whatever your doubts, they aren't religious."

"No..." Wilson shook his head, "You're right. But still... don't you need to – want to – think things over?"

"Since when do I 'think things over'?" Hous propped his cane against the dividing wall, then hauled himself onto it, stretching his legs out on Wilson's side. "You know that sort of thing doesn't bother me."

"Oh, I dunno... you wanted to change, didn't you, for Stacey, but you realised – more than once – that you couldn't. But, with... _this_...you have changed."

"Whereas you're the same limp, quasi-womanising, boy wonder oncologist that you always were?"

He had to admit, though, that it was true. To begin with, House had thought over every action he was going to make that would involve physical contact with Wilson, but now – for instance, when he straightened the tie – he acted on impulse. And strangely, it worked. He liked it; Wilson liked it. The only drawback being... yes. As he had 

satdown, Wilson had begun to edge towards him, and had finally sat down beside him. Somebody could walk in (or out, as the case may be) on them at any moment.

Shaking his head, he took a moment to think over the logic he had employed there. He had told Wilson that it didn't matter; that it didn't bother him, but now he thought about it, perhapshe had the same hang-ups. After all, he didn't care who knew about the hookers and the pornos in the bottom drawe, and yet... what did it matter who knw, really? If other people coulsn't deal with it, that was their problem. He lifted an arm to Wilson's shoulder, running a thumb along the edge of his shoulder blade, just discernible through the shirt and jacket he was wearing. Wilson looked round reproachfully.

"House... what if...?"

"Screw 'em." He responded shortly. "They don't like it, they can deal with it themselves."

As if on cue, House's door squeaked open, and heheard Chase's faltering footsteps.

"Erm... I'll come back later..." He feltWilson stiffen under his hand, and turned languidly to face Chase, resisting that same urge to stand up and get over the other side of the wall, which proved how much of a hypocrite he was.

"Not at all. What's happened?"

"Erm... nothing. Just checking for... for permission to run... to run a CT..." He was stammering; Househad no intention of helping him out.

"What for?" Chase shook his head.

"Doesn't matter... I think the machine's booked anyway." He was beginning to back into the office again. House turned back round.

"Right. Inspiring visit." Chase had gone. House looked at Wilson, "See?"

"See what? He was more awkward than Cameron."

"And you didn't jump to your feet the second you heard him and compensate by dropping your trousers at the nearest female, did you?"

"Because our hand was so tight on my shoulder I thought you'd rip it off if I tried to move."

"Yeah... well, we all have our issues."

"Maybe." Wilson spoke cautiously; non-commitally. House grined.

"Oh, what a saucerful of secrets we have to unleash on an admiring public."

"Like they need to know."

House shrugged. Need to know or not, they were going to want to find out, though why people could be the slightest bit interested, he could not fathom. But still, people held a perturbing fascination with the ins and outs of... unusual relationships.

He drew Wilson closer to him, and followed his gaze out across the roads and paving below them.


End file.
